


The Yellow House

by OkeyDokeyArtiChokeMe



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: Angst, Art, Art History, Blood, Dom/sub, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Suicide, Tags Contain Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-02-10 03:50:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18652324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkeyDokeyArtiChokeMe/pseuds/OkeyDokeyArtiChokeMe
Summary: My dear Theo,Thank you for your letter and for the 50-franc note. As you learned from my telegram, Gauguin arrived in good health. He even gave me the impression of being in better shape than me.He’s naturally very pleased with the sale that you made, and I no less, since that way certain other expenses absolutely necessary for moving in needn’t wait nor will fall on your shoulders alone. G. will certainly write to you today. He’s very, very interesting as a man, and I have every confidence that with him we’ll do a great many things. He’ll probably produce a great deal here, and perhaps I shall too, I hope.





	1. Gauguin Arrives in Arles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be irregular until mid June. Bear with me!

          The train ride to Arles had not been a short one. It was evident in the way a sleeping Paul Gauguin nearly flew out the window when the steady-paced train came to a screeching halt along the rusted tracks

          Paul hesitated to visit Vincent van Gogh at all. A vague instinct forewarned him of something abnormal, but Theo insisted he visit. Paul trusted Theo because he never withheld anything but praise for his brother despite never having sold a single one of his paintings. Gauguin could clearly see why as they were mundane and average. Van Gogh needed inspiration, light, joy- anything to uproot him from his dreary demeanor. That's what Paul was here to do. 

         The two had been exchanging letters for quite some time and Gauguin had grown fond of Vincent's childlike giddiness and imagination. His personality was far more amusing than his paintings and he wondered why the two had never mixed. 

 

         Paul stepped onto the platform and was caught by a surprisingly mild wind for an early October morning. Arles was beautifully serene at four a.m. and he figured he should wait until dawn before looking for van Gogh (although Paul doubted he’d slept a wink-too overcome with excitement to sleep, he supposed). Gauguin awaited sunrise in a quaint cafe that reminded him of any corner cafe in any French town, but he chose it because he recognized it from a painting Theo van Gogh had shown him just a month prior. The Cafe in Place du Forum was a beautiful painting that portrayed real emotion, which was rare for our van Gogh. Paul stood at the corner of Place du Forum, suitcase in hand, and watched the welcome glow of the coffeehouse spill into the empty cobblestone street. The sky was growing lighter as the morning dragged on, but the stars were still visible and still shone as bright as Vincent had painted them. It was truly a beautiful sight and Paul was jealous that he hadn't painted it first. 

         Gauguin was greeted by a friendly man still in his overcoat. He recognized him as a visiting artist and friend of Vincent's. According to the shop-keep, Vincent had been running around Arles, proudly showing off the self portrait Paul painted for him like a whimsical loon. It tickled Paul to know he was so thrilled for his arrival. It put his concerns to rest.

         The owner of the coffeehouse had been extremely gracious and allowed Gauguin to stay until nearly six o'clock. He'd forgotten how many cups of coffee he'd been served, but soon remembered when his heart began to pound on the walk to van Gogh's flat. The day had grown quite hot despite the early hour and he began to sweat beneath his waistcoat. Paul was only acutely aware of how dreadful he must have looked when he arrived at his destination, giving the door three polite taps. He barely had time for the last knock before the infinitely enthusiastic van Gogh swung the door inward. He had no idea what he would feel when he was to meet this artist face-to-face, but he wasn't underwhelmed in the slightest. Vincent looked to be a staggering full head shorter than Gauguin and his hair was a shocking orange in contrast to his pallid complexion and striking green eyes. He did not serve himself justice in the painting he had sent. Of course, his hair had grown much longer, but his face was far less thin and everything about him was almost sickeningly colorful.

 

          "Allo, dearest Vincent."

 


	2. The Painter of Sunflowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul Gauguin and Vincent van Gogh paint together. Vincent finds a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Casually deletes promise of weekly updates*
> 
> School is in session and I'm working part-time. Summer's almost here, gimme a break from deadlines.
> 
> Sorry for the short chapter!

          Paul sat across the studio from Vincent who was perched precariously on a wooden stool. His head swung to and fro in time with his feet which didn’t quite touch the floor. Despite the sweltering heat from that god-forsaken Arles sun (Gauguin would never grow accustomed to it), van Gogh wore a wool three piece suit. His hand moved in short, sporadic movements across the canvas. Although his technique was precise, skilled, and honed to perfection, Paul assumed it was the only way Vincent managed to match pace with the thoughts rattling around his brain. He’d yet to keep pace with that brain. It was a curious feeling to realize you had less sense and capability than a paint brush. 

          Vincent couldn’t sit still for much more than five minutes. Paul would remind him to hold still, but he’d soon forget and resume fidgeting. His excitement apparently hadn’t faded since he’d arrived that same morning. Gauguin logically assumed he’d start bouncing right off the walls when he gave him a long-winded tour of the flat. The only thing that seemed to calm his constant nerves was a generous glass of absinthe. That particular type of alcohol wasn’t Gauguin’s preference.

 

          Within an hour or so, the portrait was complete. Paul presented it to Vincent who called it “Quite unexpected” and touched each wet sunflower before abandoning his own painting and trudging up the stairs to his room. He quickly learned that van Gogh was quite unexpected himself and ignored the lack of sentiment. 

 

          While van Gogh was doing whatever he did stark-drunk, all alone at 4 p.m., Gauguin settled for unpacking. His room had a window just above the desk that looked out onto the little street beneath the yellow house. Each passerby seemed completely unaware of the wonders these walls contained. They were bursting through the seams with potential, yet no one paid Vincent any mind. Of course, the citizens of Arles  _ knew _ him. They  _ saw _ Vincent, but they failed to recognize his potential. No one’s born an artist. They’re made through trauma, love, encouragement. The man was so alone. What love and encouragement did he receive other than that of his brother Theo? He’d never sold any paintings. He’d never found love. He’d never kept a proper job. It was astonishing that he even managed to wake up in the morning and live each day over again. His dreams must do something for him that his day-today life never fulfills.

 

          Gauguin had managed to empty his trunks when he heard a crash from the room adjacent. He gave a polite tap on the door frame.

 

          “Vincent? Are you alright?”

 

          There came another crash before Vincent called out, “Yes, come in. Quietly, now.”

 

          The door creaked with the steady strain on its hinges. Once it was opened enough for him to stick his head inside, he was met with a disheveled van Gogh. In his hands was a dirty pigeon with his feathers all askew. “What on earth have I just walked into? How did you manage to catch a bird with your bare hands?”

 

          Van Gogh struggled to pick a proper explanation. “He was sat on the windowsill, and I- I’m not too sure what came over me.  He looked like he needed something from me.”

 

          “He’s a bird, Vincent.”

 

          “Exactly.”

 

          Paul watched him for a moment before sitting next to him on the wooden floor. Van Gogh held that pigeon like it was an heirloom. Paul failed to recognize what was so interesting about this particular bird, but was amazed at the task nonetheless. Vincent grew more curious every day.

**Author's Note:**

> This fiction was based on true events. In no way am I meaning to mock or disrespect van Gogh or Gauguin. 
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment even if you're reading this ten years after it was posted.
> 
> I'd say I appreciate all feedback, but that's not true. If you're gonna be a bitch, kindly fuck off.


End file.
